


Keys

by daphnerunning



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes it best when she plays for a crowd, but she likes it best when she plays just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys

Her fingers dance across the keys, graceful and lithe as the rest of her. Kotetsu is pretty sure she wasn’t this good the last time he heard her play, though he’d only say that to get a rise out of her. He likes listening to her too much to risk being banned because the singer kept throwing drinks in his face.

He loves the way her face lights up when she sings. It’s a shame she doesn’t love fighting crime as much as she does making music. Then again, if she were able to throw her whole self into Blue Rose the way she does into the song, there’d be no points left for anyone else.

He waits until the bar is clear, until there’s just an old man wiping down the counter, and her, and him. Fifty dollars Stern is enough to convince the bartender that it’s a good night to forget to lock the bar after him, especially since the singer is technically an employee. With the click of the lock, they’re alone, just Kotetsu and Karina and the tinkling scales of her last song of the evening.

He likes it best when she plays for a crowd, but she likes it best when she plays just for him. He jumps up onstage with her, grinning when she doesn’t stop to acknowledge his presence. He reaches around, tries to mess her up, and she laughs and bites his arm.

“Keep playing,” he murmurs in her ear, and she misses a note when he kisses her neck. 

She’s his second chance, his precious, lovely girl, all honey-dark-gold curls and soft skin, smells like snowflakes and mint shampoo as he buries his face in her hair. He’d love to be on his knees, worshipping her, drive her to real distraction with his mouth between her legs, but she’s too close to the piano. Next time, then.

Her dress is revealing. She’d teased him earlier about being jealous that other men got to see what should be his, was put-out when he didn’t rise to the bait. 

Other men couldn’t have her. Not like he had her.

She hit a dissonant chord when his hands dipped into her bodice, cupping her breasts. 

Doggedly, she plays on, though the song switches to something less “Moonlight Sonata” and more pop rock. One of Blue Rose’s first hits, easy enough that a child could play it.

His fingers trail up her thigh, under her dress, and her underwear are wet at the slit already. 

When he touches her there, the song becomes a little more “Chopsticks.” It’s not even right.

He can’t wait any longer, not when she smells like she does, feels like she does, hot and slick and swollen for him. He frees himself, urges her to stand, strips off her panties, and he’s inside her before she can take her hands away from the keys.

The only music now is the sound of her breathing, sweet and fast, in time with the movement of his hips. She braces her hands on the grand piano, fingers white-knuckled, and sighs out his name.

He’s never wanted to protect someone so strong before, never felt this confusing urge to have her, possess her, worship her, take care of her, and encourage her all at the same time. He kisses her neck, the sweet heat of her squeezing him almost painfully. 

“Kotetsu.” She breathes his name, as if just saying it makes him  _more_  there, as if she could take him in to ever part of herself. Everywhere her fingers clutch the piano, crystals of frost bead across the wood.

He’s gentle with her this time, takes his time, strokes his fingers up and down her slit until she’s a shivering mess in his arms. He loves seeing her come. When she stops shaking, he brings his fingers to his lips. He’s not a child that calls it honey or nectar, but he loves the taste of her all the same.

She’s perfect around him, encouraging with soft cries, turning to kiss him as he finishes deep inside her. It’s a moment that can’t last, his hands full of her breasts, his nose, his mouth, his eyes full of her, honey-dark-gold and snowflakes and mint.

And he’s glad.

Sweet as it is, as she is in his arms, he’s glad the moment has to end.

There are so many more he wants to make with her.


End file.
